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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28577295">Arrhythmia</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/esther_greenwood/pseuds/esther_greenwood'>esther_greenwood</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>My Chemical Romance, Pencey Prep</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Drinking, Everything's the Same Except Frank Rides a Motorcycle AU, House Party, M/M, Motorcycles, One Shot, Partying, Pencey Prep - Freeform, Pre-MCR, Smoking, Summer Romance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 05:22:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,364</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28577295</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/esther_greenwood/pseuds/esther_greenwood</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerard takes another drink. It’s not Genesee, it’s Genesee <em>Light</em>, and Gerard didn't know they even fucking made that, and it’s kind of gross, but he’s at that point where nothing really tastes like much of anything anymore.</p><p>So, he keeps drinking.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Frank Iero/Gerard Way</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Arrhythmia</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I suppose this is something of a love letter.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Okay—no, yeah, but what I’m saying is. . ."</p><p>Gerard fiddles with the tab on his beer. Shiny, silver, aluminum. It pops off with a <em>plink</em><em>.</em></p><p>
  <em>It’s not getting any better.</em>
</p><p>It’s an early Saturday night in late summer, all hot and humid and dull, with air made fetid by the heat and the wasted potential of a life-long bender.</p><p>There's music playing from somewhere in the house; Gerard can’t pick out the notes, but he can feel the bass through the linoleum beneath his shoes, and the reverb off the lived-in plaster walls, yellowed by smoke. Smoke hangs in the air. The many muddled voices—whistling, whispering, wailing—run together, condensing into a flat, indistinct roar.</p><p>Background noise—it’s all just background noise.</p><p>All he really hears, and all he really cares to hear, are the sounds of Mikey's and Ray’s voices piercing high and clear through the din. There’s Mikey, beer in hand, sitting casually on the kitchen’s granite countertop; Ray, effortlessly cool, leaning against the sink; and Gerard, hovering near them like some sort of lonely ghost—hunched over, hair dark and face pale and feeling a little too hot in his leather jacket.</p><p>All alone in a crowded room.</p><p>That’s the thing about parties, though, isn’t it? They’re just like, this collection of little microcosms. You could have one night, and someone else could have another that was completely different, but it was still the <em>same</em> <em>night</em>. And then when you tried to remember it later, afterward—either in those hungover mornings when everything just fucking <em>hurts </em>and you’re sweaty and disgusting and every noise is a scream, or in the days after when you’re almost halfway yourself again—you can only conjure up a series of vignettes; moments, flashes of colors and sounds and faces, loosely tied together by some string of fate, that play like out-of-order movie scenes.</p><p>Maybe it’s the beer.</p><p>Gerard takes another drink. It’s not Genesee, it’s Genesee <em>Light, </em>and Gerard didn't know they even fucking made that, and it’s kind of gross, but he’s at that point where nothing really tastes like much of anything anymore.</p><p>So, he keeps drinking.</p><p>He slips the tab between his fingers and nervously begins sawing that tiny, pointed piece of metal back and forth across the can’s upper edge.</p><p>“Dude, you <em>can’t</em> pregame with Pedialyte,” Ray shouts, not mad, not really—just struggling to make himself heard over all the fucking noise.</p><p>“No, no, it’s not to get—it’s not gonna make you more fucked up or anything. You’re just not gonna have a hangover in the morning,” Mikey insists.</p><p>“Like, no hangover at all?”</p><p>“I mean, alright, so maybe you’ll still have a hangover but it’s not gonna be <em>nearly </em>as bad. . .”</p><p>Gerard isn't really listening. He’s already heard Mikey’s Pedialyte manifesto a dozen times before, and it never gets more interesting than this.</p><p><em>Pop. </em>The tab finally pierces through the aluminum. Gerard sticks it in his back pocket and tips the can back and downs the rest of his beer.</p><p>Empty.</p><p>He slides past Ray to rifle around in the fridge, makes a face at the selection, and grabs another Genny Light. Who the fuck brought this shit, anyway? And why couldn’t they have sprung for piss water of a slightly higher order?</p><p><em>Yeah, well, at least it’s not fucking Busch</em>.</p><p>“Right, but wouldn't slamming like, a Gatorade or something—” Ray starts, unconvinced.</p><p>“No, dude, it’s like, it’s not even the same thing at all—”</p><p>But then Mikey’s words are drowned out by the sound of the front door opening and then a chorus of rallying voices yelling “<em>ayyy</em>!” and “<em>Frankie!”—</em>that sudden burst of noise and energy that accompanies the arrival of someone who’s, you know, <em>actually</em> cool. Gerard wonders idly what it would be like to be on the receiving end of something like that.</p><p>When the kid walks into the kitchen, Gerard chokes on the drink he was in the middle of taking—and, feeling the burn of alcohol in the back of his nostrils, makes a very unappealing snorting noise.</p><p>It’s Frank.</p><p>Frank is 19, Mikey’s age, and a few years younger than Gerard. Frank’s in a band. Frank plays the guitar like the strings were the webbing of his own heart—like the fucking thing was made for his hands alone.</p><p>Frank is cool.</p><p>A bright red motorcycle jacket on a lean frame, shoulders broadened by the padding. Helmet tucked under one arm; a hand raking through messy black hair, tinted with sweat. Bright eyes, flushed cheeks, the flash of an easy grin.</p><p>Someone tries to shove a drink in his hand, but he waves them off with a laugh, saying something about having to ride home tonight. He sets the helmet down on the kitchen table, sending a few empty cans clattering, and unzips his jacket. He looks hot under his gear, under his dark, armored jeans and heavy boots, with his riding gloves tucked casually into his back pocket. A key ring dangles lazily from the carabiner clipped to his belt loop.</p><p>The guy’s all sinew and lean muscle, a little skinny and not very tall. But he’s cute; he’s got a sweet, amiable, boyish sort of face, and there’s just something really gentle about the way he smiles, and his laugh, <em>goddamn</em>, his laugh—</p><p>Fucking tragic.</p><p>Beneath his motorcycle jacket he’s wearing a wrinkled white ringer tee. It clings to his skin, dirty and worn and old. But somehow the effect lends itself to coolness rather than, in Gerard’s case, to grossness. Perhaps it was the coolness and confidence diluted in equal parts by an air of friendliness and humility; perhaps it was some element that Gerard could not quite uncover, could not quite put his finger on, as coolness was never something he thought he really understood all that well.</p><p>When Frank passes by, helmet in hand, mumbling something about putting his gear away, Mikey gives him a brief hug around the shoulders—”<em>Hey, Frankie,</em>”—from his place on the countertop and Ray gets one of those brief, affectionate, pull-you-in-for-half-a-hug-and-a-clap-on-the-back sort of things, and Gerard gets a brief, if somewhat unfamiliar, smile.</p><p>More than strangers. But less than friends.</p><p>And then Frank’s gone, and the party keeps going, and Mikey and Ray are talking about something else now and Gerard doesn’t see him again for a while after that.</p><p>Not that he was looking.</p>
<hr/><p>Gerard crushes the empty can in his hand and tosses it underhand like a softball, sending it careening into the red plastic trash can in the corner thoughtfully labeled “<em>RECYCLE BITCH</em>” in spikey Sharpie-black lettering.</p><p>Ray and Mikey drifted off somewhere else a while ago and now Gerard’s alone, sullen-faced and a little buzzed, leaning up against the wall as if he hoped that by making no noise and moving as infrequently as possible, he might just be able to blend completely into the drab, beige-coated plaster.</p><p>As if visibility were determined by will alone.</p><p>It's too loud. His fingers are shaky, fidgety, itching for a cigarette. Gerard thinks about heading to the bathroom. He doesn’t need to piss, not really, but he does feel like he might suffocate or have a panic attack or just fucking puke or <em>something </em>if he doesn’t duck out and get away from all this for a couple minutes.</p><p>He thinks about it, but reconsiders.</p><p>Because y’know, there’s always that weird thing about the bathrooms at house parties—when you opened the door, you were never quite sure of what you were going to find in there.</p><p>A single mildew-crusted towel hanging sadly from a nail? Matching bath rugs and embroidered towels and an extra roll of toilet paper thoughtfully set out? Pastel wall tile, cool to the touch? A forgotten, half-empty can of PBR? Three people crammed over the sink doing lines of coke? A stranger's lipstick, left by accident?</p><p>Gerard heads out the back door to the porch. He needs a fucking cigarette.</p><p>There’s a breeze when he steps outside; it’s cool, and gentle, and feels good against his skin, pin pricked as it was with sweat. It was too hot in the house. Too bright, too loud.</p><p>Too much.</p><p>Out here, it’s quiet. The light is pale blue, dull and fading. Nearly twilight, in that liminal in-between, when the last lingering vestiges of sunlight still dance across the Jersey skyline and streetlights glimmer against the wide summer sky. The air is balmy, dewy, and calm. It’s an evening sweet and sad all at once; colored by a twinge, almost painful, that somehow makes you want to cry, makes you miss something you’re not sure you ever really had.</p><p>Like vampires, drunk in the daylight and ready to die.</p><p>Gerard pushes his too-long hair behind his ears and lights a cigarette, leaning against the iron-wrought fence that borders the small, square porch on two sides. There are concrete steps leading down from here—down to the path that led through the fenced backyard and then to the gate that opens out to the street. The thought occurs to him that he could slip out that way. He could just leave, and no one would even see him do it. No one would know.</p><p><em>Crack</em>—the sound of the screen door slamming shut against its wooden frame startles him.</p><p>“Hey.”</p><p>It’s Frank.</p><p>“Hey,” Gerard says back.</p><p>Frank’s smoothing his hands down his chest, patting his front pockets and then his back pockets and making a face like he forgot something. He looks smaller without all his gear on.</p><p>“It’s from <em>Akira</em>, right?” Gerard blurts out before he can stop himself.</p><p>“Huh?” Frank stops, eyebrow raised, looking at Gerard with a quizzical expression.</p><p>“Oh, um, your jacket? On the back—” Gerard fumbles. Earlier, when Frank had been turned around, caught in a hug, Gerard caught a flash of the blue and red design on the back of Frank’s jacket, and the words circled around it: <em>GOOD FOR HEALTH, BAD FOR EDUCATION.</em></p><p>“Oh! Shit, yeah, fucking rad, right?” Frank says, understanding dawning on him. “Sorry, it’s just that most people don’t know—like, where it’s from, what it means.”</p><p>“Yeah? Well, they should. ‘Cause it’s fucking sick. I mean, <em>Akira </em>is. Not your jacket—I mean, fuck, your jacket’s really cool too—like, the design, did you have to paint it yourself?”</p><p>
  <em>Ugh.</em>
</p><p>“For sure, yeah,” Frank says, distracted. He looks up and spots the cigarette in Gerard’s hand. </p><p>“Hey, d’you mind if I bum one of those off ya?” he asks, a little sheepish.</p><p>Gerard nods and pulls out the crumpled soft pack of Marlboro Reds he keeps in his inner jacket pocket. He holds it out for Frank.</p><p>“Help yourself.”</p><p>“Thanks, man,” Frank takes one from the pack.</p><p>Placing the cigarette between his lips, he bends forward, shielding it with one hand against the breeze as Gerard lights it for him. It catches; Frank dips back, and Gerard swallows the words caught in his throat.</p><p>They smoke in silence for a few moments. Frank leans casually against the siding of the house, his eyes fixed on some distant point on the horizon. The iron feels hard and uncomfortable against his lower back; Gerard shifts against it, one hand wrapped around the metal, gripping it tight. White knuckles. The other holds his smoke; he focuses on it, focuses there, because that’s easy. Familiar.</p><p>“You’re Mikey’s brother, right?” Frank asks. He dips his head back on the exhale, exposing the peachy glint of his neck. The hollows are thrown into deep relief from the muted yellow glow of the porchlight and it’s all contrast, all shadows and light.</p><p>“Yeah. Gerard. We’ve met once or twice, I think.”</p><p>He didn't just think, he knew. He’d seen Frank exactly five times before this. But that’s kind of a weird thing to know, so he doesn't say it.</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, I know—I remember you. I saw you beat Toro’s ass at Mario Kart a couple weeks ago. Man, I didn’t even know that was fucking <em>possible</em>!”</p><p>Gerard snorts—high-pitched and ugly—and quickly takes a drag to cover up the embarrassment of it.</p><p>“Nah—I just got lucky. Most of the time, I get my ass handed to me. And by most of the time I mean like, always,” he says.</p><p>“Yeah, right, sure,” Frank giggles, rubbing at his temple with the heel of his palm. And Frank’s looking at him with the pull of a smile tugging at his lips, his cigarette smoking lazily between his fingers; looking at him so unusually, looking at him like he genuinely wants to be there and isn’t just waiting for his smoke to burn out so he can leave the way he came, like he isn’t just waiting for the awkwardness to end.</p><p>
  <em>Fragile: don’t crush.</em>
</p><p>Gerard flicks the ash off the end of his cigarette.</p><p>“What happened to your face?” Frank says, indicating with a quick upward nod.</p><p>Gerard’s fingers raise to gingerly prod at the mark upon his cheek—at the dull red scrape, at the tender bruise he knows is forming there.</p><p>“Yeah, uh,” he moves his hand back and takes a drag, hesitating.</p><p>
  <em>What do you want me to say? I got fucking trashed last night and tripped and fell on my way home. I’m a drunk, clumsy asshole. Happy?</em>
</p><p>But that doesn't sound very cool at all, so instead, Gerard gives a little laugh and tries to play it off real casual.</p><p>“I mean, I guess I was just born looking like this. You don’t gotta be a fuckin’ dick about it,” he says, an uneven grin crossing his lips. Humor is good. Easy. Safe.</p><p>Frank snorts and he’s grinning too.</p><p>“Aw, fuck off!” he laughs. “That’s totally not what I meant, and you fuckin’ know it.”</p><p>Gerard gives a little shrug, as if to say, <em>well, it’s not like I have any better answer to give you.</em></p><p>“So, what happened?” Frank repeats.</p><p>“Sword fight,” Gerard says in an offhand way, like nonchalance actually came quite naturally to him and was not in fact a very careful and practiced thing.</p><p>A laugh like a bark rings out, and Frank steps forward; and he’s leaning in, and his hands are upon Gerard’s face; and his fingers are touching Gerard’s skin, pushing back his sweaty dyed-black hair. And he’s squinting, looking at Gerard like he’s trying to get the measure of him, and Gerard can feel the ash from Frank’s cigarette dropping into his hair, and <em>fuck.</em></p><p>“What’re you, a fuckin’ pirate?” Frank says.</p><p>“Yeah—y’know, like Captain Hook, or whatever,” Gerard breathes.</p><p>Their faces are so close their noses nearly touch; Gerard inhales, tasting the cigarettes and the sweat and the beer, and it’s overwhelming; the taste of him is too perfect, all cloying and intoxicating.</p><p>“That’s rad,” Frank says, and Gerard feels the words on his lips and on his skin. He feels his heart beating away in his chest, heavy, erratic—loud in his ears, loud in his veins. Because fuck, even out here in the dim low light, he can see that Frank’s eyes are so fucking pretty. Green and gold—<em>like cat’s eyes—</em>with a warm, rich brown right around the pupil.</p><p>Gerard has to look down, look away; it’s too much. Painful, really. His cigarette had burned down past the filter and began to singe his fingers; he hadn't even noticed. He tosses the butt into an empty flower pot and shakes out his hand, frowning. Fuck.</p><p>Frank pulls away, taking a half step back, a light flush of color barely visible on his cheeks.</p><p>“Is that real leather?” Frank says suddenly, casually flicking the collar of Gerard’s old, faded jacket.</p><p>“Uh, yeah, I think so. But um, it’s totally ethical—”</p><p>“And you’ve got hi-tops on, right?” Frank interrupts, looking at Gerard’s beat-up Converse.</p><p>“—I got it from a secondhand shop. It’s not new or anything. Wait—why?” Gerard asks.</p><p>“Wanna get out of here?” Frank says.</p><p>“What?” Gerard responds, bewildered.</p><p>Frank looks around furtively. He tosses his cigarette, still lit, into the yard and then turns, wrenching open the back door.</p><p>“Meet me out front in five, okay?” Frank calls back over his shoulder.</p><p>“No, hey, what—” Gerard sputters.</p><p>But Frank is already gone. He’d winked at Gerard before shutting the door behind him—fucking <em>winked.</em></p>
<hr/><p>Gerard waits on the concrete steps leading up to the front porch. They’re all cracked and faded and old, poured a long time ago and crumbling from many years of use.</p><p>He bites his fingernails as he waits, anxious, and then forces himself to stop when he realizes what he’s doing. Crosses his arms across his chest instead, and then focuses very intently upon studying his shoes. He notices one of the laces is tied too loose. He fixes it—too tight. Again—still too tight, but better this time.</p><p>When Frank clambers out the front door five minutes later, he’s got his gear back on, jacket shiny and scarlet, boots scuffed, gloves missing but presumably tucked into one of the two helmets he has cradled precariously under his arm. He shuts the door and then shifts, taking one helmet carefully in his other hand.</p><p>“Hambone’s got my spare,” he explains. He holds the helmet up to Gerard’s head, squinting.</p><p>“Alright, your head’s kinda big, but it should work. I think. Com'n, my bike’s right there—it’s the red one,” Frank says, a little unnecessarily, seeing as there aren’t any other motorcycles parked on the street except for his. Gerard takes the helmet in his hand—it’s surprisingly heavy, surprisingly dense—and follows him.</p><p>“Woah,” Gerard says when they get to Frank’s bike.</p><p>It’s retro—sporty and narrow with a tall, boxy frame. A little scrappy maybe, but attractive, with a faded red and white paint job and something to prove.</p><p>And goddamn, it looked fucking <em>fast</em> as hell.</p><p>“This is—holy shit, this is so fuckin’ cool. What is it?” Gerard asks.</p><p>“She’s an ‘85 Yamaha—an RZ-350, if you wanna get specific. I dunno how much you know about motorcycles? But uh, it’s got a 350cc two stroke twin,” Frank rattles off. He’s looking at the bike with a mixture of love, admiration, and awe.</p><p>The numbers don’t mean a lot to Gerard; he doesn’t know very much about cars, much less motorcycles. But he makes a face like he’s impressed with the specs anyway, and Frank looks pleased.</p><p>“So—you wanna ride?” Frank asks a little sheepishly, his hand rubbing the back of his neck.</p><p>“Wait, really?” Gerard says, looking up to meet Frank’s eyes.</p><p>“Yeah, really. And hey—don’t look so worried, alright? You’ll be safe with me. Promise.”</p><p>“Well, um—” Gerard pauses, running a nervous hand through his hair. He weighs the idea, at once terrifying and dangerous and appealing and provocative in equal measure. Against what is likely his better judgement, and hoping very much that Mikey never tells Mom about it, he agrees.</p><p>“I guess so,” Gerard shrugs. But he’s smiling, too.</p><p>Frank grins, wide and full, a spark upon his lips. He immediately starts prattling off directions about how to ride; all the things Gerard should do, and <em>especially </em>all the things he definitely shouldn’t do. Gerard gets the spare helmet on; it’s a little small. Frank helps him buckle it. His touch is careful, gentle—and wherever Frank’s hands touch him, Gerard feels the ghost of a burn.</p><p>“Does that feel okay? Not too tight or anything?” Frank asks, his voice soft.</p><p>“Yeah,” Gerard answers, “yeah, it’s fine.”</p><p>Frank smiles and pushes the visor down on Gerard’s helmet.</p><p>When Gerard clambers onto the bike after Frank, he hesitates, and then very deliberately sets his hands upon Frank’s shoulders—anxious, afraid to touch him too much, to push this too far.</p><p>“You can put your arms around me, it’s alright,” Frank laughs, as if he knows. He’s pulling on his riding gloves, not even looking at Gerard, and he still knows.</p><p>“Oh. Okay,” Gerard mumbles. He adjusts, wrapping his arms around Frank’s waist. He tries not to think too much about the way it feels.</p><p>Frank then dips forward slightly over the bike, bringing Gerard with him, their bodies pressed together, comfortable, close. He looks back over his shoulder, grins—eyes like a fox—and slams down the visor on his own helmet, obscuring his face.</p><p>“Ready?” he asks, rolling his shoulders, hands poised on the handlebars.</p><p>
  <em>Not a fuckin’ chance.</em>
</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>Frank flips the ignition switch.</p><p>“Hold on,” he says, and kicks the starter down, and the bike roars to life, high and angry and full. Frank blips the throttle, revvs the engine. Gerard doesn't think he’s ever heard anything so goddamn loud.</p><p>Frank checks the road over his shoulder and then they take off, peeling out onto the pavement, and Gerard squeezes Frank’s waist, hard—he doesn't mean to, it just sort of happens as soon as he feels the bike moving under him. He loosens up as soon as he realizes he’s doing it, mortified. But he just hears this sort of laugh from Frank, and they keep going, so maybe it isn’t all that embarrassing.</p><p>Then they take the first turn, and Gerard feels his stomach drop, but he does what Frank told him and lets Frank lead—<em>agility, it’s just about agility</em>—matches the slant of Frank’s body, tries to stay parallel with the bike.</p><p>He hopes he doesn’t fuck it up.</p><p>They straighten back out, Frank cranks the throttle, and suddenly they’re speeding through a green light at the end of the street, careening right into traffic. The world passes in a blur, just thick smears of paint scraped onto a canvas.</p><p>Gerard shuts his eyes, holds on tighter, desperate. Frank reaches a hand back and lays it on Gerard’s knee, lets his fingers stroke the old denim reassuringly—and then both hands are back on the handlebars, head down, his whole body becoming just another part of the bike, and Gerard’s knee feels cold and his face feels warm.</p><p>But it sort of works, Gerard thinks, because he feels himself relax somewhat. He unscrews his shut eyes and lets himself look up from where his face was pressed into Frank’s shoulder and watches the pavement fly past; watches the short, squat buildings on both sides of the street and the high, glittering traffic lights disappear behind them; until only the dimming sky seemed to stay. And after a while—after the adrenaline wears off some, after he settles comfortably into the fervor—Gerard thinks he understands. He thinks he even starts to love it.</p><p>Maybe there’s something beautiful about this.</p><p>It’s the air in his lungs, so clear and fresh and cool. It’s the velocity. It’s the gentle roar of the engine, and the pliant, flexible way the bike moves, balanced on its edge like a spinning top. It’s the feeling of his chest pressed against Frank’s back, of arms clenched around a tight waist; of sweaty palms, the scent of leather, the brush of rough air; helmets knocking together briefly, accidentally, like teeth knocking between deep kisses given in the dark; and Frank is warm, so warm, like carmine, so solid and safe and <em>here</em>.</p><p>Gerard starts to feel cold, a little too cold—his fingers are like ice at this point—and maybe that’s just from the wind, or that the sun’s fully set now down past the Passiac, and they’re here now on the darker side of twilight. </p><p>But no matter how cold the wind bites, the air is warm, blushing—and he wouldn’t give it up for anything. This feeling was like home, but brighter; intimate, but with strangeness fleeting. Impermanent, ephemeral, like the dying of the light.</p><p>As though the very momentum of summer itself were held here in this brief moment.</p><p>It’s near full dark when they slide onto Broadway. Frank merges seamlessly into traffic like it’s nothing, and takes them across to the left-most lane, weaving between cars easily. Accelerates again as they straighten out—the bike gives a whine, and a kick, and a snarl, and then they’re fucking flying—and Gerard doesn't think there’s anything faster than this, doesn't think there’s anything quite like this at all. He holds onto Frank’s waist a little tighter, presses closer, and Gerard swears he feels him laugh.</p><p>Frank loved the rush that came from the speed of it; loved to peel out, all smoke and gravel and screams. Frank loved it because it made Gerard clutch at him harder.</p><p>Maybe it was the fear. Maybe it was the love.</p><p>After what feels like an impossibly too-short amount of time, Gerard hears the faint sound of Frank’s voice through his helmet.</p><p>“I’m gonna take us back now, okay?”</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>Their helmets knock together. Frank turns back, eyes locked on the road ahead of them; Gerard lays his head carefully against Frank’s shoulder. He wishes Frank wouldn’t take them back.</p><p>
  <em>You can run away with me anytime you want.</em>
</p><p>All he wants is this. He wants that full heat, that lazy, transient glow of summer, and the deep indigo light from a sun already set, and the red-hot crimson ruby red of Frank’s bike; and the warmth and the touch and the feeling of his arms around Frank, close, too close; the steady pulse of adrenaline and vulnerability to match <em>(be still, be still)</em> his beating heart.</p><p>Pin-bright city lights, twinkling in the breeze like stars.</p><p>The press of his chest against Frank’s back, strong and lean and sturdy and warm. That dull ache; not quite skin to skin, and yet still so intimate. The touch of leather—Gerard runs his fingers across Frank’s motorcycle jacket—it’s red, red to his black, it’s red like the bike and the scrape on Gerard’s cheek and the soft faded light from the brake lights on the cars they whip around. Red as the lie.</p><p>A soft sigh from bruised lips. The sting of cold hands, frozen knuckles; pale lips, hazy orange lights, and dark purple hollows under tired eyes.</p><p>Heartbeats, heavy hard fast, but breath slow, steady—safe.</p><p>Okay?</p><p><em>Okay</em>.</p>
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